The Second Yes

by Amanda Tru

  “You hate it.”

  “No… I love it, but…” London beckoned a woman in a Nancy Reagan suit—Rhonda Snow herself—over to her side and pointed. “Don’t you have something a lot like that? In pale ivory?”

  “Organdy skirt, flesh mesh, applique, accent bow—”

  “Well, we’d have to remove the bow, but—”

  The woman pierced London with a glare that shook Lara to her toes. “You don’t want to destroy the lines.”

  Just like that, London dropped it. “Well, let’s try it on, then.”

  Lara blinked and stared. “Can it be that easy? I thought it would take hours.”

  “It might—to find a bridesmaid’s dress that’ll work with that one.”

  Brenna piped up for the first time. “And without butt bows. I won’t wear one. Period.”

  “I won’t either.” Lara lowered her voice. “You wouldn’t do that to me… would you?”

  “No… but we might have to make it removable just to keep Rhonda from getting all upset. She’s… fond of her bows.”

  The sight of Mrs. Snow carrying a frothy pile of fabric and lace stopped Lara from speaking her mind regarding the placement of bows wider than her great-aunt Betty’s backside—and that took some doing. A text message from Brenna appeared just as Mrs. Snow did.

  Has someone forgotten to inform her that sleeves and bows the size of states are not part of the retro-eighties revival?

  A question like that deserved only one reply. Do you want to be the one to break it to her?

  “Can you believe she tried to put Anne Shirley dream sleeves on your dress?!”

  Seeing Brenna so relaxed, happy—seeing her laugh even after taking a bite of crab Rangoon—it almost made Lara miss the problem with that statement. “Wait—who’s Anne Shirley, and why does she want those ginormous sleeves?”

  Brenna huffed. “Anne of Green Gables. The most popular orphan since Oliver Twist? The red-head who broke her slate over her future husband's head? That Anne Shirley?”

  “Well, I’ll never read it…” At something in Brenna’s face, Lara amended that. “I mean, watch it, now that you’ve totally spoiled who she ends up with.”

  After knocking back the rest of her mock-toddy, Brenna dove for another Rangoon. “Okay… tell me your favorite thing about Preston.”

  That wasn’t an awkward question or anything. Lara debated the wisdom of empty calories when she had a dress size to maintain and decided that three months was more than enough time to work off a few appetizers and a mocktail or three. “I want shrimp, first. Let’s get the shrimp sampler and the onion loaf. Then I’ll answer any question you will.”

  What Lara hadn’t expected was instant agreement. “Deal.” Brenna’s smile flickered before she managed to repress it. “But I get to go first.”

  “Let me have it.” The only question was a quirked eyebrow. Lara almost asked again when she realized the question had already been asked. “Oh, right. My favorite thing about Preston. Um… I think it’s that he’s so comfortable in whatever ‘world’ he’s in. I mean, some rich guys act like they’re uncomfortable with the fact that they have money—or at least like they think they should. Others seem to not know how to flaunt it—even without doing it intentionally. Preston is just Preston. He has money. So what?”

  Brenna started to ask another question, but Lara wagged a finger at her. “Nuh-uh. Favorite thing about Mitchell.”

  Even in the semi-dim lighting of the restaurant, Brenna’s cheeks pinked. “I think it’s how he’s making such an effort to grow his faith. He’s not pushing it—not trying to force-feed it so it’ll happen overnight, but he’s… I don’t know…” She sipped the mock-toddy, hands wrapped around the glass mug as if it would keep her warm and cozy. “I guess… nurturing it.”

  “Preston didn’t use to have one. He grew up in his parents’ church, but only in the past few years has he actually made it a part of his life. He said he couldn’t wait to get out from under the rules.”

  “So he just walked away from the Lord altogether? Why not just choose a church that isn’t about rules.”

  Lara shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, I read up on what their church believes. They don’t see themselves as having a bunch of rules as much as making wise choices for their physical and spiritual health. He thought it, though.”

  “Green-grass syndrome, I suppose.”

  A server arrived and took their shrimp sampler order. Brenna leaned back and watched Lara for a moment before musing, “I guess we all go back to what we’re most familiar with if we’re not committed to something else.”

  The memory of dinner at the St. James’s prompted Lara to plop her head in her hands, elbows on the table in a way that Lara St. James would never be able to get away with, and say, “You know what was weird?” Brenna urged her to continue, so Lara did. “Mr. St. James. Seriously, anytime he hinted at his faith in connection with Preston, it sounded awful—like some hated duty or something. He was cold and rigid—no love of Jesus or God at all. But the rest of the time he had such a sweet gentleness and humility when talking about what he’d learned in his personal devotions or a sermon he heard online. He really likes to listen to Ravi Zacharias on his commute to work.”

  “Why the difference with Preston? What kind of ‘awful?’”

  Explaining it wouldn’t be easy, but Lara tried. “I don’t know. Like my ring? He was all kinds of nasty with Preston about it. But when Preston excused himself, Mr. St. James told me how happy he was to have such a lovely woman joining the family, and he hoped I would feel a part of it quickly.”

  “Maybe Preston gave it to you without his permission? Family heirloom? Maybe his mother wanted it?” Brenna examined it and shook her head. “Nooo… That looks too modern, don’t you think?”

  “I know he bought it. I can’t remember why I know that, but you know what? Miss Stella…,” With eyes closed, Lara tried to look across the memory of a dining room table and at the hand of the woman to her right. “Yeah… Miss Stella doesn’t have a ring—just a band.”

  Brenna brushed that aside with all dismissiveness. “She’s probably just having it cleaned or something.”

  The explanation? Logical. Despite that simple fact, Lara didn’t believe it. But since she really had no explanation for why, she opted to drop it. The relief that came at that moment vanished in the next. I shouldn’t feel relieved at not thinking about something that isn’t a bad thing to think about!

  “So, why did you say yes to Preston when you did?”

  Good question. Lara didn’t admit it aloud, but she’d been asking herself that since the night she laid in her bed staring at a ring and wondering how it had ended up on her finger. “I think because I didn’t have a reason not to.” She’d meant for the words to sound mature and whimsical at the same time. Instead, I just sound pathetic.

  “You do love him, don’t you?”

  If anyone else had asked, Lara might have stormed out of the restaurant in a move destined to have her groveling in shame twelve hours later. But one didn’t throw dramatic fits of embarrassment with Brenna Kinsey. They’d flop. Flat.

  Instead, she leaned forward, grabbed Brenna’s hands, and squeezed. “I do—really. I just kind of figured that was a given. If I didn’t, I would have said no.”

  “And will—?”

  “No, no.” Again, Lara wagged her finger at Brenna. “Your turn.”

  “I didn’t agree to marry Mitchell.”

  “So, tell me why you would… or why you agreed to go out with him.”

  The shrimp arrived, and the server insisted on taking their dinner order. Not until they were alone again did Brenna attempt to answer. “Okay, which one?”

  “Both. Tell me both.”

  Brenna wagged her head. “Nuh-uh. You said one for one. That’s two.”

  “And I told you that I do love Preston, so that was two. Spill it.”

  Before Brenna could speak up, her phone dinged. Horror transformed into incr
edulity and then amusement. She passed the phone across the table. “He said he would notify me—even for a paper cut. So Lauren gave herself one—just so I’d know she’s alive and well.”

  “That’s dedication.”

  Thumbs did the dance on the keyboard before Brenna stowed the phone and all the stress melted from her body again. Until that moment, Lara hadn’t realized just how relaxed she’d become. Before Lara could say anything, though, Brenna dipped a shrimp into cocktail sauce and watched the excess drip off as if the most interesting thing in the world.

  “I went out with him because Mitchell’s the first guy who…” She popped the shrimp into her mouth and chewed. Lara just waited. After a sip of water, Brenna sank back against the chair. “This is more embarrassing than I thought. Here goes. He’s the first guy I’ve ever wanted to flirt with. I’m pathetic at it, but he thinks it’s cute, anyway.”

  “That is cute.” The idea of flirting with Preston… Lara almost shuddered. “I don’t think Preston’s a flirty kind of guy.”

  “I doubt there’s a man alive who doesn’t want the love of his life to flirt… even if it’s just in private”

  Maybe… private. That’s probably it. He’d want privacy, but… Lara skipped the rest of her internal musings and nudged Brenna as she reached for a hunk of the onion loaf she’d forgotten they’d ordered. “And if he proposed today? Why would you say yes?”

  “You assume I would.”

  Lara just eyed her friend.

  “Fine. Assuming I did…” In spite of herself, Brenna’s expression turned dreamy. “Pinkerton.”

  Of all the things Lara could have considered, Mitchell’s disreputable-looking cat wouldn’t have even received an invite. “Oookaaay… ‘Splain.”

  “Well, he didn’t want that cat. He didn’t know how to take care of one, but he did it—kind of like how he does with Lauren. He just fumbles around with her, trying to make sure he keeps her physically safe and mentally healthy. It’s not even his job, but…”

  That’s when understanding clicked into place. “But you want to see him with your baby.”

  A shrug, a smile, a laugh that was just shy of a giggle—Brenna didn’t elaborate, and Lara didn’t press. If she did, Brenna would be sure to ask if she looked forward to children with Preston. And I don’t want to admit that I hadn’t really thought about it aside from how we’d handle church if that happened… and Miss Stella’s preoccupation with “Faux-ma.” That’s reason enough never to have any.

  “Will your son be Preston the fifth?”

  “Not happening.” Lara clapped a hand over her mouth. “That wasn’t nice,” she admitted once she recovered from her outburst. “I just think four is plenty, don’t you? What about you? Would you name a son Mitchell Junior?”

  “Why not? I like him. If he wants a son with his name, or if their family has done it for generations, I can live with that. It’s a name people recognize, can spell, and doesn’t have associations with crooks or anything.”

  You’re nowhere near marriage zone, and you sound way more ready for this marriage thing than me. I need to talk to Ty about that.

  Their food and another picture of the paper cut—one doctored in sharpie and ketchup, no less—arrived to distract them from the conversation. When she realized it, Lara stowed a note about her relief in her marriage counseling file and slammed the drawer shut. Not while we’re here.

  Planner, measuring tape, and favorite pen in hand, Lara jerked open the door of the New Cheltenham chapel, ready to do serious damage to her to-do list. She had half an hour before the first marriage counseling session, and by the time she moved over to Ty’s office, she expected to have every measurement she could ever need, as well as a list for the florist.

  Lara’s respect for woodworkers and construction workers shot through the roof as she fought with the tape measure. Every time she pulled out three feet, adjusting to reach for her pen would ensure the tape slid back into the case. Out of desperation, she pinned it down with one knee, reached for her planner, and set it beside her.

  She also rocked her knee enough to ensure the case skittered across the floor, and the tape zipped back inside. Lara did not swear, but she did consider that there were insufficient appropriate words with which to voice her displeasure in such moments. “Botheration just doesn’t have the same impact as a few other choice words I could think of at the moment.”

  Guilt crept in on tiptoe and tapped her shoulder, whispering, Don’t you think there’s something a little incongruous in complaining about a dearth of appropriate swear words while measuring a church? Isn’t that an oxymoron, anyway? Appropriate swear word?

  “I’d agree,” Lara snapped back, “if I could just get this stupid thing…” She slammed a hymnal on one end of the tape and pulled a bit more out. “To stay put!”

  Two shoes appeared in her line of sight, just as she reached for her third hymnal to hold the tape measure in place. She’d recognize those shoes anywhere. “Can you just move your left foot over a few inches? The tape is on a mission to thwart mine.”

  Ty’s hand also appeared—something else she’d recognize anywhere. Large, smooth, dark on one side and a little lighter on the other. He took the bulky metal box from her hands, pulled out a length, and slid his thumb over the “grip.” Miracle of miracles, that tape didn’t snake into a million directions, slicing flesh and terrorizing reasonable people. It stayed put.

  “Wow. I knew I’d seen them behave, but I couldn’t find the button.” She examined what she’d assumed was a grip to keep hands from sliding off in the struggle with the tape. “I didn’t think mine had one.”

  To Ty’s credit, he didn’t laugh—snicker inwardly, perhaps, but he had the decency not to let her see. Instead, he pulled the end of the tape and began backing away. “Tell me when to stop.”

  “At the front pew. First measurement is for aisle swags, then I’ll need up to the dais.”

  Once she’d recorded every measurement she could possibly need, Lara slipped the tape measure into her coat pocket and surveyed the sanctuary. The tall, pointed-arch windows with their leaded glass only added to the old-world beauty of the chapel. Sprays at the base of each sill to accent the windows? Tulle draped from one arch point to the next and caught up with flowers above the point? Lara shook her head at that. Too much.

  A glance at Ty showed him watching her. Lara swept her arm around the room. “You’ve been to lots of weddings in here. What flowers or decorations stand out in your memory?”

  “Mostly the hideous ones.”

  She gestured for him to keep talking while she jogged up the dais and stared out over the room. “Such as?”

  “Tacky lace attached to beautiful birch logs. That same lace on each of the candles which, I’ll have you know, melted that lace when they forgot about it. Stank and nearly scorched the wood. The flowers were dollar store rejects.”

  “Why would someone do that to such a beautiful place?”

  “Mama said that they spent all their money on the venue and food and didn’t have any left over for decorations, so instead of letting people and good architecture be the decor, they tried to do it with what they could afford.”

  Unfortunately, Lara could visualize Ty’s description to every detail, and the mental picture produced a shudder. “I think I agree with your mama. Ugh. Tell me a great one, please!”

  He pointed to the back door. “One bride didn’t have someone special to be a flower girl, so instead, she decorated a huge floral arch over the doorway there. It had tons of roses and lilies, and I don’t know what all in it—almost a white curtain there. So, when the doors opened—I think they covered those with flowers or satin or something, too—she was just framed beautifully. Then, two ushers pulled cords on each side, and she walked through falling rose petals from above. Gorgeous. They clung to her dress and fell along the aisle, almost like she’d had a flower girl. Unique, beautiful, and meaningful for them.”

  The picture made her sigh before she
could stop herself. “That sounds amazing. I love it—much more meaningful than, ‘Well, I have a cousin, thrice removed, who has a daughter the right age. I’ll have Mom give her a call for you.’”

  His laughter rang out and filled the sanctuary. Not as great as when he sings, but man… that laugh. It should be recorded for actors who are lousy laughers. Lara just gave him a weak smile.

  “Wait… you weren’t joking?”

  “Don’t I wish. I’ll ask Preston, but I doubt he’ll go for it. He has no opinion until it’s the last thing I think he’ll care about. Then he’s determined to do exactly opposite what I want.”

  Ty checked his FitBit and eyed her. “Is he late?”

  She swallowed hard and willed back tears she hadn’t expected. “He’s not coming.”

  Not a good start—first his weird behavior at the restaurant and now he can’t bother to show up for marriage counseling?

  “He had to go out of town for a last-minute meeting. He said to take good notes, and we’ll go over it all when he gets back.” She gave Ty an indecipherable look. “I know we don’t have a lot of time, so I thought I should come instead of rescheduling.”

  He’d almost knocked “unity in Biblical understanding” off the counseling docket, but Lara added, “He’s going to counseling with his pastor, too. They’re at night, or I’d go, but I can’t—not with the restaurant. It’s on Wednesday nights after prayer meeting. And I need to be at The Birches.”

  Unity doesn’t have to mean identicality—if that’s even a word—but she needs to be sure they do have essential Biblical unity. Perhaps starting off with the idea of being unequally yoked is a bit heavy-handed, but is it right to wait until she’s even more invested?

  “Ty?”

  When had she switched from Brother Jamison to Ty? He shoved that question aside and kicked its fraternal twin—why did he like it so much?—to the curb. “Sorry, yes. Let’s get on it, shall we? Would you be more comfortable in here, or in my office?”

  In his office. Alone. And in March, so the door had to stay shut. He was just about to rescind the offer of his office when she marched down the aisle. “Office. Definitely. I don’t want anyone walking in on my marital shrink session.”